by V M Jones
We stood in a solemn line a safe distance from the edge of the precipice and stared down in silence. There wasn’t much to say.
The cliff face was perpendicular and smooth as glass. Way, way down was something I thought must be water — the light hadn’t reached there yet, and it was too dark to tell. Further from the cliff face it turned patchy and broke up into a deeper darkness that disappeared into distance.
‘It’s clouds,’ Rich croaked. ‘Those paler billowy things are clouds. And beyond them, way down — that must be trees: the forest Blade told us about.’
I said nothing. It seemed to me the only way down would be to sprout wings and fly but it didn’t seem helpful to say so.
‘Well,’ said Gen after a pause, ‘there must be a path or something. If that’s where the Realms of the Undead are, and the others have been taken there, then there’s a way down.’
‘Gen’s right. We just walk along the top till we find it.’ Kenta didn’t sound convinced.
‘Maybe we’re supposed to use Meirion’s magic sail as a parachute?’ hazarded Jamie.
‘I don’t know,’ said Rich. ‘I wouldn’t want to be the one to try it. But standing here won’t help. Let’s eat. The answer’s bound to come. It always does.’
But it didn’t. We finished our dribble of water and dried apricots in gloomy silence, and all too soon Rich clambered to his feet and said, ‘Well, I guess it’s walk-along-the-cliff-time, guys. How about a vote, Jamie: left or right?’
Then he frowned and tilted his head, listening. Turned, shading his eyes, gazing south. I was on my feet in a flash, heart hammering. I could hear it too. Hoof beats, coming closer.
I could see them now: three of them, two together in tight formation, the other right behind. They were heading straight for us. But there was something about the two bigger ones, something odd …
‘Adam …’ Jamie was quavering. I glanced at him. His face was grey and slack with fear.
‘Don’t worry, Jamie, they won’t hurt us. Look at them, they’re beautiful!’
As I said it, the impossible happened. The rear horse, a powerful white stallion, suddenly spread a massive pair of wings — and flew. My mouth dropped open. He rose in a steep climb, then plummeted like an eagle falling on its prey. As he dropped from the sky he let out a scream of rage.
The other two horses reacted instantly. The smaller one, running ahead, wheeled and raced back the way she’d come, ears flat against her head. I had a clear view of her as she turned: a filly, wingless, a dark dapple-grey with a star on her forehead, her silver tail rippling out behind her like silk. I saw her eyes roll with wild terror; then her haunches bunched and thrust, clods of earth flew, and she was gone.
The other horse spun to face its attacker. As the great stallion fell from the sky he rose to meet it, his own wings outspread, forelegs scything the air. Something about his lightness of foot and the way he held his head, his crazy courage and fierce pride, told me he was hardly more than a colt. The early morning sun gleamed on a coat glossy as a conker and flashed off wingtips blue-black as a starling’s; his dark mane and tail flew in the breeze like the spray of a shimmering waterfall. He’d stolen the filly, or tried to — challenged the dominant stallion. And now he would pay.
I half expected the stallion to veer away at the last second but he didn’t. He dive-bombed the colt, smashing into him with a thwack that jarred us where we stood. The colt met the blow head-on, but the impact threw him to the ground. Legs flashed as he scrambled to his feet again, but the stallion was on him, hooves slicing like cleavers, yellow teeth snapping like giant castanets.
Somehow the bay colt struggled free, spread his wings and in a single beat was airborne; now it was his turn to scream, a feral shriek with a fury that made my blood race. Then he swooped on the stallion, teeth bared, eyes rolling white.
They met in a confusion of flashing hide and flailing hooves, first one, then the other rearing skywards, necks snaking, teeth slashing and tearing. Suddenly it was over. The stallion wrested himself from the colt’s fierce embrace and soared upwards, wheeling like a warplane once over his challenger with widespread wings and a final savage screech of warning before gliding in a lowering swoop after the far-off figure of the grey mare.
The colt galloped after him, nostrils flared. Twice he trumpeted a challenge before his pace broke to a lilting trot, then stumbled to a walk. He gazed into the distance, one foreleg held awkwardly, flanks heaving and head held high. His wings were half-spread, as if he was undecided whether to pursue the stallion or turn back; then at last, with a stretch and a shuffle, he folded them into place at his sides. Slowly, head jerking painfully with each step, he moved away in the direction the others had taken.
‘He’s hurt,’ Kenta whispered. ‘Look at him, he’s limping.’
‘He’ll be OK,’ said Rich. ‘It’s all in a day’s work to him.’
I walked slowly over to the trampled battleground where the fight had taken place. Where the young horse had walked the golden grass was bent apart to make a V-shaped pathway — and all along one side the stems were slick with blood.
Wings
‘I’m going to help him.’
‘Are you crazy, Adam? You can’t! He’s wild — he’d kill you as soon as look at you!’
‘Nah, he’s more scared of us than we are of him.’ But for once Rich didn’t sound very sure.
‘The boys are both right,’ said Kenta. ‘He wouldn’t let you near him, Adam, and even if he did, we don’t have any healing potion.’
‘But we do have something else.’ I turned towards my bag, but Blue-bum had beaten me to it. He was already holding it up, leaves withered, pods shrunken and crinkly: the fire-tongue we’d found for Blade.
I found a clean tin mug, snapped off a pod and crushed it between my fingers. It crumbled easily to a fine, slightly gritty powder. ‘A few more of these, then a trickle of water and we’ll have a paste as good as any antiseptic.’ Grinning, I held up my finger, covered in fine red dust. ‘Anyone for a taste?’
‘Adam, will you be serious?’ said Gen. ‘What about our quest, and the future of Karazan? What about Lyulf and Blade? She needs that fire-tongue more than anyone. You can’t waste time chasing round after a wild horse when what we need to do is find a way down that cliff!’
Without thinking I licked my finger and instantly wished I hadn’t. ‘OK, guys,’ I said, once I could talk again, ‘here’s a plan: you head off in pairs and hunt in both directions for a way down. I’ll stay here and see if I can get near enough to put some of this on the colt’s leg. There’s plenty left for Blade. If I haven’t managed it by lunchtime I’ll give up, I promise. I can’t just leave him.’
‘Well, for goodness’ sake be careful,’ said Jamie as they headed off, Blue-bum an invisible rustle like a cane-rat in the long grass.
‘You too,’ I called after them. ‘Don’t fall over the edge!’
It felt wonderful to be alone under the pale bowl of sky.
I hunkered down and crushed half-a-dozen more seedpods, whistling between my teeth and trying to remember to keep my fingers out of my mouth; then tipped a few of our remaining drops of water onto the powder, mixing it carefully to the consistency of toothpaste. There was only about a tablespoonful — hopefully it’d be enough.
I rubbed my hands on my breeches and stood, stretching. For the first time I felt a niggle of doubt. Now what? I turned in a slow circle. The grass stretched away all round me, sloping up towards the cliff, and gently down in the direction the horse had disappeared. There was no sign of him anywhere.
The sun was warm on my shoulders. The lightest breeze sighed through the grass, harmonising with the twitter of birds feasting on the lacy grass heads. The sounds wove together to form a song in my mind: the song I’d been whistling moments before. I needed to finger it out on my larigot before I lost it … I settled cross-legged with my back facing the cliff. I had heaps of time, and I could keep watch for him while I played. I’d only b
e a minute. The first clear notes flowed out over the plain … and time ceased to exist.
I drifted back from the dream world of the music to the gentlest ruffling current of grass-scented breath on the back of my neck; a warm, whiskery tickle … My soul swelled in instant recognition. Hands steady, heart pounding, I played on.
Velvet lips nibbled softly at my hair. A goofy grin split my face. I lowered my larigot and waited. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a hoof the size of a soup-plate brush through the grass in a jerky hobble; another followed it, its edge suspended above the ground. As I watched, a ruby drop grew on its tip, swelled and fell. I sat like a statue.
The colt drifted past me, step by awkward step, head down, tearing at the grass as if he just happened to be passing. But his eye watched me, liquid velvet, luminous with curiosity. He circled slowly, bite by bite, till he was in front of me. Now I could see the narrow white blaze that zigzagged down his nose, shading to a whiskery shell-pink where it met his dark muzzle. He nosed at the grass with lips as sensitive as Blue-bum’s paws. His forelock fell over his eyes in a silken cascade; he watched me through it steadily without a hint of fear.
Closer he came, and closer. Now I could feel the faint vibration as he tore at the grass; hear the rhythmic mashing of his teeth as he chewed. The fresh-grass smell mingled with the warm animal perfume of horse.
I was staring at him openly now. His limbs, so fine and strong; his coat, polished mahogany. His angel-wings, as natural a part of him as his swishing tail, folded on either flank, their tips crossing like a swallow’s above his gleaming rump. Above the knee of his left foreleg was a single gash deep as an axe-blow, trickling a steady stream of blood.
At last he reached me, nuzzling my face, sharing sweet-scented breath. I blew softly into his nostrils, murmuring to him, kneeling in the cool, fragrant grass; rubbed the satin neck, combing the coarse hair back from his eyes with my fingers; ran my hand over the hot, damp hide under his mane.
Still talking softly, I reached for the mug and scooped the paste onto my finger; reached out and slowly, gently, smeared it deep into the wound. The colt threw up his head and backed away, his skin twitching as if a fly had settled on it. His ears flicked back, then forward; he looked at me and gave his head a vigorous shake, as if he had water in his ears. Then, with a fluttering snort like a long-suffering sigh, he settled back to the serious business of grazing. It was done.
I rose stiffly to my feet, half-expecting him to startle and prance away, but he didn’t. I walked over to my pack, wiped the cup clean and replaced it, certain that when I turned back he’d be gone.
He wasn’t. He was plodding after me … and the limp was almost gone.
I went to him and cradled his head in my arms. He pushed against me, whoofling. As if in a dream I moved beside him, reached up and ran my hand down the smoothness of his back, over the raven-sheen of his wing. And it was then that the idea came to me.
‘I’ve never done this before, any more than you have,’ I whispered. ‘If you don’t want me to, tell me now — while we’re still on the ground.’
One moment I was beside him, heart thumping; the next I was astride hot horse, a double handful of wiry mane in both fists.
I’d hoped he might stand still for a second, while I got used to being up there. But as soon as my weight settled I felt fluid power flare through him, every fibre alive with energy. He leapt forward in a rearing lunge, only my grip on his mane stopping me from tumbling off. I hunched and hung on, terror and rapture roaring in my ears, my blood singing. A series of bone-jarring leaps, a smooth surge — and suddenly we were soaring, mighty wind-borne wingbeats bearing us higher, the ground impossibly far below.
Out over the precipice we flew, the clouds a flock of sheep way down; he spread his wings and wheeled a lazy circle, the earth spinning like a globe. Wind whipped through my hair and stung my eyes; dizzy, I clung on and goggled downwards.
How would it feel to touch a cloud? No sooner had the thought begun to form in my mind than the sky tilted and we were spiralling downwards in a wide corkscrew, then levelling hundreds of feet lower to skim through them: not soft and fluffy like I’d thought, but dense drifts of fog that blurred my vision and misted my skin with fine, cool spray. Squinting up I could see the sun, a hazy white glow … and suddenly I longed to be high again, to feel its warmth on my skin. Instantly the colt banked and beat upwards with slow, strong strokes, up as high as the cliff and still higher, then turned to glide back in again over the land.
We skimmed low over the others, straggling back dismally along the cliff-edge; I caught a flash of pale moon-faces gawking up in disbelief before they were snatched away under the shadow of our wings.
I realised I was laughing: wave after wave of joy, pure and free as air. Somehow, somewhere on that wild roller-coaster ride, I forgot to be afraid. This was our element; I was as safe on his back as a child on a rocking-horse. The air was solid as a cushion under us, bouncy with shape and substance, hills and hollows; my mind flexed with his wings as they lifted and dipped.
When I was astride him it seemed we shared the same soul; a winged centaur, half-boy, half-colt: prince of the wind.
The voices of men
For the last time the colt touched down light as a feather, Jamie spilling off from behind me to land in a heap beside the others. Leaning forward, I wrapped my arms round the muscular neck, now sleek with sweat, and rested my cheek for a moment against the tangled mane. Thank you. I didn’t say goodbye — I knew I didn’t need to. Then I slid to the ground and looked around.
Behind us the endless wall of the cliff stretched up, its top lost in cloud. Ahead loomed the forest, dark and forbidding, the tree trunks grey with damp and lichen. Leaves drooped heavy and lifeless, mottled with decay; the choking dankness of decomposing vegetation hung in the still air. There was no path that I could see, and no sign of life.
I looked at the others. They met my gaze, one by one. Blue-bum clambered up onto my shoulder and twisted his hands into my hair. Together, we entered the forest.
It was Gen who saw it first — and when she touched my arm and pointed, with the first shadow of a smile I’d seen in that dark place, I felt my heart lift.
It was a bird — a tiny grey bird, with an upright widespread tail like a fan. It was fluttering round us as we picked our way through the trees, sometimes beside us, occasionally behind, most often ahead, treading air like a butterfly, perching for an instant to wait for us, then flitting off again.
‘Birds of the air … It’s pointing the way, like Meirion told you,’ Kenta whispered.
Sure enough, the undergrowth became less dense, and we were moving more easily through the trees. But there was still no hint of sun, no glimpse of sky; instead, the gloom deepened as we walked on, until it seemed that the only source of brightness was the little bird dancing ahead.
Jamie, who was leading, stopped dead in his tracks with a squeak of dismay.
‘What is it?’ asked Gen. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘The bird’s gone. It spread its tail and did a little kind of bob, as if it was saying goodbye — then it flew off between those trees and disappeared.’
‘Let’s go after it,’ suggested Rich. ‘Maybe it’s waiting up ahead.’
In single file, scanning the undergrowth for any sign of the little bird, we followed Jamie in the direction it had gone and then straggled to a halt, staring round us.
We were in a clearing. Trees reared up on every side, their canopies forming a roof way overhead. The ground was carpeted with fallen leaves, spongy and damp; the air was cool and still, steeped in silence. Still the tiny bird was nowhere … but on the far side of the clearing lay a massive fallen tree trunk. On its right the root base reared up in a gnarled tangle like a nest of snakes, furled fern fronds nestling in the exposed hollows. At head-height longer roots merged with the groping tentacles of trees to form a natural archway — with the beginning of a path just visible beyond.
The ruined tr
unk stretched away to the left, clusters of toadstools sprouting from its damp crevices, to be swallowed by the trees fringing the clearing. At the point where it vanished the rotting wood had collapsed to leave a crumbling stairway choked by underbrush and trailing vines … and a second track, half-hidden, leading away into the darkness.
‘Look,’ Gen said softly. ‘The paths Blade told us about. One leading to the Realms of the Undead, the other to your journey’s end. And those must be the birds that speak with the voices of men.’
They were roosting on the tree trunk, one at the entrance to each path: about the size of pigeons, one black, one white. Their feathers were patchy, showing through to pimpled skin like partly plucked chickens. Their splayed yellow feet were scaly looking and scabby, but their eyes were bright as jet, watching us unblinkingly.
Rich stepped forward, head tipped to one side. ‘Hello,’ he said in a bright, enquiring tone completely unlike his normal growl. ‘Helloooow?’
‘Shut up, Richard!’ hissed Gen. ‘These aren’t talking parrots!’
But the birds didn’t seem to be offended. They shook their wings with a rattle, opened their yellow beaks and cackled, a rising sequence of harsh notes like a mockery of human laughter. It rose to a shrieking crescendo, then trailed away to a clacking giggle, then silence.
We shuffled our feet and huddled closer. ‘Now what?’ whispered Kenta.
‘We ask them which way to go,’ muttered Gen, ‘without antagonising them.’
‘You do it, Jamie,’ Kenta said. ‘You’re the politest.’
Jamie took a small step forward and cleared his throat. Clasped his hands as if he was about to sing a solo in choir, turned to the black bird on the right and gave a small bow. ‘Good day, my feathered friend,’ he began. The birds stared at him, their tiny eyes shiny and blank as beads. The thought of them opening their beaks and talking suddenly seemed crazy. But Jamie carried on: ‘Are you by any chance the birds that speak with the voices of men?’